TITLE: Post-Post-Mortem
AUTHOR: ga
E-MAIL ADDRESS: garrull@yahoo.com 
DISTRIBUTION: anywhere, just let me know
SPOILER WARNING: post-ep for DeadAlive; pretty much
anything else is fair game
RATING: R, I guess. For all intents and purposes,
angst-free. A little sex, one four-letter word
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
SUMMARY: a day back in the life
DISCLAIMER: never been on a surfboard. I have a friend who
surfs, but they're not hers either
FEEDBACK: tastes better than babies, and with fewer
calories

NOTE: this is in response to Kimberly's fic challenge on
the IWTB List; see the end of the story for challenge
items. No babies were consumed in the making of this fic.
 
 

When death is by alien abduction, you can pretty much throw
that organ-donor card out the window.

Turned out Mulder needed them anyway.

His first living request is for a toothbrushing. They've
been pumping him full of sugar water and electrolytes;
he'll probably have a Gatorade habit for the rest of his
life. Only fair, given the gym time it'll take to rebuild a
runner's physique, though even a body that's starved to
death still carries a few pounds of fat. Fate is not pretty
no matter how you slice it.

First, he'll have to work up to lifting his head.

"C'mere," he says when that fails; but before she does,
Scully yells in the general direction of the door,
"Doggett, I've got a gun--get a life." Then they're nose to
nose; some things take far longer to atrophy than others.
He smells of death and antiseptic and she wonders whether
her next autopsy will be a turn-on.

"Alone at last," he smiles, and waggles his eyebrows until
she takes the hint and closes the space between their lips.
Though not consciously aware that he's spent the last
several months underground with closed eyes and a mortuary
half-smile, keeping his eyes open now seems a matter of
national importance. Unfocused Scullyblur looms before him,
ivory and rose and copper cirrostratus scudding like a
breaking storm, with a few stray tears for precipitation.
Up this close, he can't really see the wrinkles he's caused
her.

She pulls back far enough to flash a blinding grin.

Desire is a powerful motivator.

Scully still holds the hand to which his monitors are
attached. Mulder slides the other up to where she is
half-draped across his chest and encounters the swell of a
breast, larger than he remembers and, having perused this
particular mental photo album countless times, he's
reasonably certain he remembers correctly. His eyes go
saucer-shaped and then hooded, and the corners of his lips
curl, evil as the Grinch. She grins even wider and raises
herself to give him better access.

"So that's how you spent the insurance money, eh?" he
croons.

"Not exactly," she purrs back. "A little lower, big guy."

"Just a second." His hand perches, palm centered over a
nipple hardening in appreciation, to rest from his
exertions before charting a southward course. He's been to
Antarctica before.

It takes a moment to wrap his brain around what he is
touching.

"Scu-" His head jerks off the pillow, seeking visual
confirmation.

Shock is an even more powerful motivator.

He is so captivated by the sight of her stomach that it is
nearly a minute before he looks to her face.

"Well, I'll be damned," he breathes. "Please tell me I had
something to do with this."

"Do you believe in the existence of extramarital progeny,
Agent Mulder?"

He believes in everything but God and the Fiji Mermaid,
though the likes of this could convince him to join the
theological home team as well. "How? When?"

"Well, Mulder," Scully begins in her explaining voice,
"babies are notoriously bad at math. But, best I can figure
it, this is your answer to the aspersions cast on your
flashlight by 'The Lazarus Bowl.'"

Revenge is sweet but not without its price. "Figures my kid
would have even worse taste in movies than I have. Forget
bedtime stories; we'll just screen 'Plan 9 From Outer
Space.'"

"What you mean 'we,' white man?" she asks with eyebrow
raised and he stammers and turns his head away, reduced in
a flash to sperm-donor status. She has to bite his
finger--hard--to get him to look back at her.

"As long as that's the ONLY one of your movies you intend
to show."

"Aww, Scully, you don't think the kid'll be into 'Damsel
Dames of...'"

Mulder doesn't completely stop talking until Scully's
tongue tangles with his. The last few words, however, are
muffled to the point of incomprehensibility.

--------------------------------------

Mulder awakens outdoors on the Mall. Blinking a few times,
he recognizes it's the Ed Wood version: a silvery-blue
Mylar blanket covers his bed while a replica of the
Washington Monument stands at the foot. The room is lined
with branches of cherry blossoms, dozens of them. The
pink-white petals are already beginning to drift away from
their branches. He is certain Scully has a contingency plan
to mollify Housekeeping.

Scully half-lounges in a visitor chair, her unshod feet up
on the bed to prevent ankle swell. Having perused his chart
earlier, she is now using the clipboard as a lap desk as
she writes a note to her mother.

"You know," he says thoughtfully, "if you lie on your back,
you could do an imitation of the Jefferson Memorial."

"Gee, thanks, Mulder." She looks his way with a disdainful
expression, though she can't really see him; the glasses
are for close work only. Mulder hasn't seen them on her in
years.

"There's nothing in the CC&R's that forbids having a
reflecting pool." Mulder mock-splashes his arms against the
space blanket. Already he can lift them inches at a time
without provocation.

"Not this kind, anyway." Scully scoots her feet off the
edge of the bed and uses the seesaw effect to leverage
herself off the chair. She settles next to him on a corner
of the narrow hospital bed, drawing her knees back up
against his ribs. Her glasses are discarded onto the
bedside tray among water glasses and used tissues; chart
and letter were abandoned on the chair.

"It's spring, Mulder," she singsongs off-key in his ear,
and he shivers at the humidity of her breath.

When a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,
he thinks. He says, "Thus the cherry blossoms?"

"Sort of." Scully snuggles closer and pulls a waxy
green-white branch from behind her, holding it up for him.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find mistletoe this
time of year?"

Right now, kissing requires every last bit of his
attention, though he can almost imagine the time, several
minutes hence, when he'll want to branch out. Consideration
of the price of parasitic plant life in the greater DC
area, however, just doesn't cut it. He can blame any memory
lapses on post-traumatic stress.

The door to Mulder's room rattles just before opening.
Scully breaks their kiss and hurls the first item she finds
that is not attached to either of their persons at the
intruder. Boxer shorts make an ineffective projectile--the
pair snags on one of the cherry branches, causing a small
rainstorm of petals. The invader, Mulder's doctor, is
undeterred. Scully scrambles to her feet--as gracefully as
she can with her currently displaced center of gravity--and
proceeds to pace the room as though presenting while on
rounds.

They say that doctors make terrible patients. Doctors
standing guard when their significant others are patients
may be even worse. Doctors whose significant others have
just risen from the dead are likely the worst of all; but
their number is extremely small.

Post-traumatic stress is a social disease.

The doctor, Mulder's doctor, frowns at finding his chart
misplaced. Scully's letter to her mother flies
paper-airplane style under the bed as he snatches the chart
from the chair where it rests.

The doctor, Scully, saves him the trouble of reading it.

"His vitals are within normal range and have been stable
for the last 48 hours. Other monitored levels are also
within acceptable limits. His last two viral scans have
been clear with no sign of infection. Patient is alert and
responsive and has already shown significant gains in motor
control and strength. I see no reason to keep him here,
especially since you will be releasing him to a doctor's
care." Aware that any pause would be a strategic error,
Scully delivers this litany in a single breath.

Mulder's doctor is not impressed by her lung capacity. "Is
that your medical opinion, or are you a representative of
his managed-care corporation? Given the unique
case-history, a few more days of observation seem
warranted. At the very least, we need to reduce or
eliminate his dependence on the feeding tube..."

"Since he's regained consciousness, there is no reason not
to reintroduce liquid nutrition this morning; by night, we
should know how he's responding. If necessary, I can handle
an IV setup at home--I don't think I can handle more than
one more night sleeping in that chair." Scully mutters the
last bit sotto voce, but it seems the doctor has excellent
hearing.

"The night staff said you managed to make yourself quite
comfortable last night," the doctor smirks. "In fact, his
3am Demerol nearly ended up in your ass."

It occurs to Mulder that laughing until he chokes would
likely diminish his odds of early parole.

"Doctor," Scully asks suddenly, "if you were me, would you
let him out of your sight?"

The doctor softens, shapeshifting before them into a nice
guy like an Alien Bounty Hunter turned Robin Hood. "I
suppose not. All right then, let's see how he does today."

Scully sighs her gratitude.

"Doc?" Mulder calls.

Both physicians come to the realization that the subject of
their debate is not only a sentient being but is in fact
present in the room with them.

"Any chance I could, um, lose the catheter? It's starting
to cramp my style." Mulder delivers this request with nary
a blush.

Mulder's doctor nods and draws a pair of latex gloves from
his jacket pocket, donning them sans snap as he steps over
to perform the procedure in question. With a glance at
Scully's abdomen and a raised eyebrow he acknowledges her
proprietary claim on this particular corner of Mulder's
anatomical real-estate; Scully meets his eyebrow and raises
him another before turning her back to provide
professional-courtesy level privacy.

A whoosh of breath signals that the coast is clear.

"Well, then," the doctor says, already heading for the
door, "I'll be back later to see how things are going. Mr.
Mulder, if I do release you, I trust that you will strictly
follow your doctor's orders." It is abundantly clear that
the doctor does not perceive this to be a problem.

"Yes, Sir," Mulder answers the back of his head. Once the
door is safely closed, he continues, "Especially if she'll
give them while wearing that Xena: Warrior Princess costume
I got her."

"These days, I believe you'd have an easier time fitting
into that costume than I would, Mulder." Scully stands next
to the Washington Monument at the foot of the bed, arms
akimbo, and studies his body as though picturing how he'd
look in a black-leather-and-metal bustier. The image
evidently pleases her.

Mulder squeezes the front of his hospital gown, trying to
create cleavage. "A Kodak moment to be sure. Be sure to
send a copy to your brother Bill."

Any pose reminiscent of Xena kicking ass would involve
mounting a campaign worthy of Rommel the Desert Fox to
achieve, so he settles for Marilyn, curling into a
seductive slouch on the bed. Scully is sympathetic: these
days, she finds, rolling over requires planning and effort.
A month from now, it may require a winch.

She smiles secretively. "Bill asked my mother if there were
any pictures of your funeral. I think he wanted to see it
for himself."

Though neither is notoriously thick-skinned, both Mulder
and Scully have hides largely impervious to the slings and
arrows of outraged Bill, Jr.

"I'll bet Kersh got a whole album's worth. What, Bill
couldn't get shore leave? I'd have thought he'd fly in
special just to see me dead and buried." Mulder pats the
bed next to him in invitation and gets hit in the face with
a sweatshirt, for old times' sake.

"I didn't exactly tell him when it was. He doesn't know I'm
pregnant."

Mulder whistles; it's louder than he expects and he
startles himself. "So he hasn't yet added 'knocked up my
baby sister' to my list of sins. Better not tell him I'm
alive either, Scully; he'd just have to kill me all over
again. When were you planning on telling him?"

Scully crosses to the side of the bed as if to take up
Mulder's invitation, but instead leans over him and untucks
his hospital gown.

"When I can use the excuse 'not in front of the baby' to
avoid having to listen to his reaction. Now, let me just
make sure you didn't experience any 'head trauma' having
that catheter removed." She leans in still further for a
close inspection, unwilling to put her glasses back on.
Mulder wheezes at her touch as though he's got a lungful of
beetles; Scully abruptly giggles.

Torn between aghast and self-righteously indignant, Mulder
ends up sounding like he's been doing helium shots. "Even
with recent rigor mortis in my favor, Scully, it's
generally considered bad form to laugh at a guy when your
face is an inch from his cock."

Scully stifles her giggle against her shoulder but still
emerges with a smile more Monica Reyes than Mona Lisa. "I'm
sorry, Mulder. I just flashed on the image of Bill walking
in here right about now. Talk about your Kodak moment."

The sheer magnitude of the threat sends Mulder's focus
careening for the door, which is unmoved. Slings and arrows
are one thing; the assault of Bill, Jr.'s image on a
burgeoning erection quite another, though Mulder feels that
through the experience he has gained valuable insight into
what it was like to be Scully in Junior High. Envisioning a
ScullyLolita goes a long way toward negating any
deleterious effect. The thirtysomething version, fraternal
jitters long since subsided, traces each vein on his shaft
with the intent of a cartographer, and all thoughts of Bill
are banished, at least til the next time Mulder needs to
get himself under control at a Budget meeting.

Risk of infection so soon post-catheter precludes Scully's
adding a taste test to her survey, much to the regret of
both involved parties. Nibbling his ear, while not quite
the same, poses no such health hazard, and does afford her
the opportunity to stretch out beside him. The ersatz
reflecting pool is reduced to a puddle at their feet, into
which they dip their bare toes as they kiss.

"You missed Valentine's Day, you know," she says in a
sultry voice. "And my birthday. And your birthday."

"And New Year's Eve," he adds, then instantly regrets it,
since his postosculatory crack about the world not ending
hits rather close to home these days. To cover, he asks,
"Who won the World Series?"

"Yankees, in five. Subway series."

"I missed a subway series? Shit."

"You also missed my second trimester," she says, getting
back to the point. "All those wasted hormones..."

"I owe you a six-pack of AA batteries at the very least,"
he promises, then his voice drops. "But if it's okay with
you, I'd prefer to work off my debt."

"Okay," she whispers conspiratorially, "but don't make me
take off my underwear unless you mean it."

Despite the incision scar on his chest, Mulder's heart is
decidedly in the right place, and his hands are itching to
go there as well. However, Daylight Saving Time is a cruel
taskmaster. An orderly, who apparently had been briefed on
the Demerol incident, clatters everything on her cart as
though chiming a carillon, allowing Scully fair warning to
skulk from the bed before she enters the room. Just in
time, Mulder checks his gown and pulls up a sheet to cloak
half-mast tumescence.

The orderly rolls Mulder's tray-table into position and
unveils the first substances of quantifiable nutritional
value scheduled to cross his lips since his untimely demise
and nearly unprecedented comeback. The piece de resistance
is a cup of vaguely steaming liquid that, in the most
charitable description to cross Mulder's mind, resembles
the runoff from soupy oatmeal. Nectar and ambrosia not;
nevertheless, he gamely consumes half of it without
drowning. Scully confiscates his hot water and decaf
teabag. She slumps in a chair in honor of visiting hours,
balancing the mug onboard baby. The surface of the liquid
ripples each time the baby kicks; little MulderScully's
kung fu is the best.

Scully interrogates Mulder, in excruciating detail, on the
pitfalls of reawakening digestion: nausea, gas, heartburn,
flatulence, impending diarrhea. She pledges timely bedpan
delivery as he stares wistfully toward the door behind
which dignity lurks, some 12 feet or a swim of the British
Channel away. That small step for man will probably wait
until he can lean on someone his own size. In an effort to
deflect attention from the less glamorous uses of his
external plumbing, he points up her seeming neglect of the
most important meal of the day with a time-honored "Is that
all you're having?"

In answer, she sinks still deeper into the chair, which is
decidedly not a recliner, and extracts a bottle from the
public-television totebag underneath. The bottle yields
prenatal vitamins of equine proportion. Though intimately
aware of Scully's ability to relax her throat muscles,
Mulder is impressed. "I'm just waiting for Frohike to show
up with my breakfast," she says, rolling the pill around in
her fingers.

As if on cue, enter the Gunmen. They greet Mulder
enthusiastically but from a safe distance--although
thrilled to have him back among the living, they are too
insecure in their masculinity to hug him for it. Langly
presents Mulder with a gym bag--his, a couple of videotapes
that aren't, and a "Do not Disturb" sign from the Watergate
Hotel, while Frohike hands Scully her brown paper bag with
a flourish. She unpacks a yogurt container and two small
plastic pouches and dispatches Byers for a large glass of
water. Moments earlier, she had espied her letter to Mom in
hiding under the bed; Frohike is the logical choice for a
retrieval mission, he having the smallest distance to
traverse. Langly appears to be wiring the miniature
Washington Monument with a miniature plastic explosive.

She'd discovered after some experimentation that bee pollen
actually tastes better straight, and so scoops a spoonful
from the pouch directly to her mouth.

"Scully!" Mulder cries in delight when he notices that she
is instead adulterating her yogurt with shelled sunflower
seeds. Any lingering doubts about the paternity of her
child are instaneously erased. Reading his mind, she says
with a roll of her eyes, "This is all your fault, Mulder."

Alas, even eidetic-memory consumption of his erstwhile
favorite snack proves a bit much for Mulder's delicate
constitution. He telegraphs his distress to Scully in
mental Morse code and she promptly herds the guys from the
room, spinning Byers, on his way in with the water, as
though he was in a revolving door. Sensing what's up, the
guys go willingly--fat chance any of them will agree to
diaper duty in the next couple of years. Mulder and Scully
agree to keep this yet another of their little secrets,
determined as they are to get him sprung by nightfall.

Mulder's room once again safe for humanity, the Gunmen
troop back in for the floor show.

A hospital gown can make anyone appear sick by association;
and Mulder's rates a Glamour "Don't" for playing up the
residual cerulean tinge to his skin, leaving him looking
rather smurflike. The boys are fresh from their mission to
find Mulder's clothes and, like a striptease in reverse,
he's gonna put it on, put it all on.

First out of the bag of tricks is the ubiquitous gray
t-shirt, which Scully helps him pull over his head amid
catcalls from the appreciative crowd; she takes the
opportunity to whisperdrawl lasciviously in his ear, "Seems
a shame to get you dressed. That open back is so much more
conveeeenient." The live audience prevents her from
demonstrating her point.

The moment of truth arrives: the boxer shorts. He draws
them from the bag like one of the Seven Veils, unfurling
them with a flick of the wrist. All are momentarily
dumbstruck, until Scully bursts into guffaws.

The boxers in question are decorated with line drawings
illustrating their intended contents. Mulder looks over at
Frohike, the presumed suspect, and says, "How the hell did
you find these?"

Scully, caught mid-chortle, sputters a moment before she
can ask the question. "You mean, they're YOURS?" This sets
off a fresh round of hilarity, though she has a feeling
she'd be pissed if she knew where he got them.

Mulder has the same feeling. "Frohike. The box you found
these in...get rid of it." She'd apparently already passed
once on an opportunity to autopsy him; no point in tempting
fate. Fortunately, the situation at hand is as easily
rectified. All agree that this pair makes far livelier
tree-trimming than the pair that's been on cherry-branch
display all day. Langly, who's closest, drapes the one and
snags the other, shaking out stray petals. He opts not to
check the shorts for cake before handing them over.

Since his fan club is all situated on one side of his bed,
Mulder discreetly turns the other cheek, offering his back
view for their delectation as he hoists the boxers over one
and the other foot. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem
prudent for his maiden voyage standing to be with undies
caught knee-high. Any horizontal maneuvering to get the
things over his ass would involve overexposure--at least,
to the Gunmen's taste; so they steal a line from "It
Happened One Night" and pull up a sheet to act as scrim. It
drops on a count of ten, with several fractions thrown in
to give him extra time, revealing Mulder in all his
skivvied glory.

Last on the retroecdysiast's hit parade is a pair of soft
sweats older than the average candy-striper. Scully is
called upon to play Vanna White: Physical Therapist, gently
hoisting Mulder's legs skyward so that the sweats can
slither down his scrawny thighs. A shimmy of the hips
completes the sartorial sarabande.

For his finale, Mulder rolls over and moons them. Skinner
and Doggett arrive just in time.
 

Challenge elements:
Mulder's reaction to Scully's pregnancy: check
Cherry blossoms: check
A long open mouthed deep kiss: maybe even a couple
Lost undergarments: not anymore, Frohike found 'em
Photo albums: sorta, anyway
A lost letter found: that Frohike's a versatile guy